We’ve now reached Week 3 of this Gratitude series.
This week something happened.
I hesitate to tell you what. It might offend your sensibilities. Literally, this might stink. It is a very sh*tty blog.
But let us persevere!
Only continue to read–if you dare.
Thank you, dear Universe, for blessings such as manure.
I have been begging, bewitching and pleading with Barry for 5-10 years. Please, please, please can we get some sh*t for our garden?
Our poor onions remain stunted after a season’s growth and sometimes barely grow larger than the planted bulbs. Our tomatoes droop sadly on the vine, desiring more natural fertilizer to grow. Our zucchini–well, we shan’t malign our zucchini, shall we? Let’s just say we no longer produce enough to sneak it into unsuspecting cars as mass giveaway presents.
We can’t entirely blame the garden soil. The soil actually nourishes two rather LARGE plants that grow in its bosom. Those large plants are called spruce trees. We haven’t–yet–had the heart to cut down the lovely trees where chickadees and blue jays and nuthatches alight. Where chipmunks and red squirrels scamper.
We love our spruce. They just don’t encourage a delightful productive garden. Barry buries fish guts in between the beans and broccoli, but, hey, it’s just not enough. Neither was the natural fertilizer we sprinkled how many years ago.
Please, Barry, I begged, can we buy some sh*t?
No, we couldn’t. Alas. Our former manure-delivery-guy no longer owned a truck. We only heard rumors of sh*t way up in Keweenaw Bay, and no one could determine exactly WHO owned both the delivery truck and the goods.
The tale of the poo-less garden continued year after year. I tried to count my blessings. I tried, truly, dear reader.
Last week Barry found the Guy. And is he a manure EXPERT! He sold us his “secret blend”. I shall whisper the recipe: 2 parts medium-fresh cow pucky for punch (it will provide necessary heat in spring. We do not want old dead powdery compost, which might be good for your flowers.) 1 part pony poo with added bird doo for that extra zing! (Bird doo, for you unsuspecting sorts, equates to chicken manure, bless their clucking beaks.)
Our delivery guy, bless him as well, lowered to his knees to show us each component. My heart beat in joy!
We received almost seven yards of manure, dear reader, and I swear I haven’t been this blessed and grateful in ten years. (That may be a little exaggeration, pardon my enthusiasm for Life’s Little Pleasures.)
The problem (every rose has its thorn, right?) is that the dump truck kind of, sort of, missed the garden a teeny tiny bit. Thus, yours truly, who does not want to arrive at work with sh*t on her shoes must troop around the yard with a bucket and gloved hands and PICK UP THE PUCKIES!
It’s only because I’m so grateful with the thought of dancing lettuce, fist-sized ruby beets and waving cilantro that this manure remains the major blessing of my week.
Grateful for you stopping by and (hopefully) laughing along with us.
P.S. Some of you are already wondering why I didn’t spell out the word sh*t. That’s because my mom would have driven all the way up north and washed my mouth out with soap, don’t you know?